


Cinnamon Roll

by likeadeuce



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breakfast in Bed, CW: Non-graphic Physical Violence Against a Child, CW: Psychological abuse by a parent, Enthusiastic Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, New Year's Day, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: When Adam Parrish was ten, he created his own tradition for observing New Year's Day.Eight years later, Ronan helps Adam find new ways to celebrate.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 29
Kudos: 170





	Cinnamon Roll

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks destroythemeek for beta-reading and inlovewithnight for letting me bounce ideas.
> 
> I wanted to post this New Year's fic earlier than January 11, but life comes at you fast.

New Year's Day always meant something to Adam Parrish, in a way that most holidays didn't. When he was living under his parents’ roof, January 1st had some things in common with other holidays: his father’s schedule changed in ways that meant he might drink more (bad) or sleep late (good) or otherwise fall into unpredictable patterns. Without school or the public library to escape to, Adam had to get creative in meeting his always overriding short-term goal, which was to stay out of Robert Parrish’s line of attention. New Year’s was better for this in some ways (Adam didn’t have to get up too early to sneak out before Dad was awake) and worse in others (January was cold in Virginia; usually not too cold but cold enough to really wish he didn’t have to be outside all day). 

Then, the year he was going to turn eleven, Adam forged a New Year’s tradition of his own. 

The night before had been especially shitty. Adam’s father had a co-worker over to drink on the couch and watch a football game. His mother sat in the kitchen nook with the guy’s wife or girlfriend. It was about as much of a crowd as the double wide could take, and Adam tried his usual maneuver of slipping away to his bedroom as early as he could get away with it. He had a library book, _The Sword in the Stone_ , and, when a moment’s impulse told him that it ought to be a celebration for him, too, Adam filled a bowl with barbecue potato chips. When he seemed to accomplish that invisibly, he smuggled a nearly full two-liter of store brand grape soda into the bedroom with him. 

The soda was Adam’s downfall. He got so drawn into reading about young King Arthur’s adventures in animal transformation that he didn’t notice how much he was drinking. The adults were still wide awake, voices droning along with the TV, and Adam really had to go to the bathroom. He waited until the men started cheering -- their team must have scored -- and slipped out of the bedroom while he hoped they would be distracted. Adam thought it had worked. He at least got to relieve himself, and he was halfway back to his bedroom,when his father’s voice boomed: _What are you doing, boy?_

The details didn’t matter. Dad ordered Adam to come over to him. _Be sociable. Don’t lurk. Don’t get in the way. Don’t be such a girl. Don’t you understand football?_ Adam managed a few acceptable responses, but inevitably he answered too smart, or too slow, or he made the wrong face. Or maybe Adam handled everything as well as he could have handled it and his father was just sick of the game, and backhanded him across the eye. It wasn’t the hardest Adam had ever been hit -- it definitely wasn’t the hardest he _would_ ever be hit -- but it happened. It happened in front of three other adults, including Adam’s mother, and none of them said a word.

The next morning, Adam’s alarm went off at 6:25 a.m., an hour before sunrise. He put _The Sword in the Stone_ , a marble notebook, and two ballpoint pens in his backpack. He packed a peanut butter sandwich, some beef jerky, and one of the Deer Park bottled waters that his mother had refilled and placed in the freezer. Adam dressed in layers, and he got on his bike. He rode to the nearest public park, where he sat at the picnic table and spent the entire day writing out an eight year plan. He sectioned off a number of pages for each year -- fewer for the earlier ones, more as he went along. As he got older, Adam decided, he would have more options, more freedom. He would know more, and understand what he needed to do. On the final page, he wrote “January 1” and filled in the year he would reach that date and be eighteen years old. Under the date, he wrote, simply, “The day I won’t have to do this anymore.”

Every subsequent New Year’s Day, Adam revisited that notebook. He filled in pages based on his new understanding and crossed out ideas that felt naive or embarrassing in retrospect. (The notebook had a lot of crossouts.) He wrote out more plans in other notebooks -- for college, and beyond -- but he kept revisiting this one

When Adam moved out, it had nothing to do with his plans. His father hurt him, Adam pressed charges, his father called him a liar. He was close enough to eighteen that Child and Family Services didn’t dig too deeply into the assurance that he had friends to stay with, especially when those assurances came in the mellifluous tones of Richard Gansey III. 

In Adam’s rush to retrieve the most essential things, he left the notebook behind. He woke up at night, sometimes, imagining either of his parents reading his words, and he felt nauseated but also pleased. They would see all the plans and ambitions he’d been nurturing in silence, all those years. But that thought was as pathetic as most of his childhood fantasies. Adam had no doubt that, as soon as Gansey’s car took him out of the dirt road driveway, his parents threw all of his things away.

*

Adam wakes up on the morning of that date he wrote down so long ago. Eighteen years old at last, he lies, naked and halfway hard, in the soft comfort of Ronan Lynch’s bed. Ronan’s pillow is still warm, and the scent of brewing coffee blends with something rich and sugary as it reaches Adam through the open bedroom door. The sheets feel amazing against his skin; it’s the kind of luxury he didn’t know he was missing for most of his life. If he still had that eight year plan notebook, he would write: “700 thread count or higher, but fabric quality matters more than the number.” 

Most nights, Adam still sleeps on his own cheap sheets because his apartment is closer to school and work, and because Ronan isn’t fully at ease with what might emerge from his dreams. But last night, they spent a quiet evening together: dinner, slow and tender sex, a black and white movie that Ronan loved and Adam couldn’t focus on because he was watching Ronan’s eyes as Ronan watched the movie, then more vigorous and demanding but, Jesus, Adam didn’t know if he could ever stop thinking about it, sex. Some time during their last round, a meaningless clock struck an arbitrary hour, and they fucked though the cusp of the changing year.

Afterwards Ronan launched into a “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”-worthy litany of reasons that Adam driving home with crazy New Year’s Eve drivers and cops all around wasn’t safe. 

“Just say you want me to stay,” Adam murmured, as his lips traced Ronan’s earlobe.

“Yes. Stay.” They fell asleep together. 

Now, Adam is awake, and he wants to lie in these soft sheets forever, but he also wants to say good morning to Ronan. The old house is chilly. The cold hits Adam as soon as he gets out of bed, so he finds boxer shorts (his own) and sweatpants (Ronan’s, slightly short on him but still comically large over his skinny legs). He pulls the first shirt out of a random drawer -- a black tee that sports an unfamiliar but cool-looking band logo on the front, and a list of European tour dates on the back. The dates are all from well before Ronan was born and several possibilities occur to Adam: a thrift store find, a hand-me down from his father, or merch pulled out of a dream from a band that never existed. It bears a faint smell of old weed, but that could support any of the theories. 

Adam puts it on. 

A few minutes later, he comes out of the bathroom and hears Ronan pounding his way up the stairs. When he gets to the top, Ronan is shirtless and looks flustered. He’s carrying a tray with steaming coffee and cinnamon rolls. Ronan gestures toward the bedroom with his chin. “You’re supposed to be in there so I can --” Again, he tries to use his chin to convey a complex set of intentions.

Adam kisses his temple. “Sorry, you didn’t tell me and I’m not -- well, okay, I am kind of psychic. But not about stuff like this.” Ronan still isn’t using his words, so Adam says, “I will get back in bed, if that fits with your plan.” 

Ronan grins, then notices Adam’s shirt. “You like the Tossers?”

Adam touches the loose collar. “I like swimming in my boyfriend’s clothes.”

“Hot,” Ronan agrees. He gestures with his chin again. “But take it off so I can look at you.”

Adam feels his skin blush against the cold air as he strips off the shirt and the sweatpants. He leaves his underwear on for now, and pulls the sheet and duvet over his lap. Ronan’s face furrows in concentration. He clearly hasn’t thought through the logistics of setting the tray down. Adam pulls the bedside table closer and moves an old-fashioned analog alarm clock and two books of Irish mythology to the floor. He hesitates over an item he hasn’t noticed before: a burning candle in the shape of the tree from the backyard at 300 Fox Way.

“Did you bring that back last night?” 

“Yeah. I was dreaming about needing a hostess gift for brunch today. Think Blue’s mom will like it?” 

Adam personally thinks that tree is kind of an asshole, but he knows it means something to Blue and her family. He just says, “Definitely,” and goes to blow the candle out before moving it to the floor. The flame doesn’t even flicker. 

“Don’t try to blow it out,” Ronan tells him. “Just -- like -- think at it.” That sounds wild, but Adam does his best to project _off_. The candle complies. Adam has questions about what happens if somebody idly thinks _on_ in the candle’s direction without proper fire safety protocols in place, but he decides that particular problem can wait.

Ronan hands Adam the steaming mug, then a warm roll on top of a napkin. “You didn’t have to do this,” Adam tells him. “I did not expect you to bake for me.”

Ronan sits on the bed next to Adam. “It’s what happened to be in the fridge. It’s just the pop out kind that comes from a tube.” He uses his hands to demonstrate popping.

“The best kind,” Adam promises, as he takes a bite. He’s always razzing Gansey about paying five dollars for a Starbucks pastry that tastes like cardboard, when the store brand tube ones are a much better delivery system for pure carbs and melted sugar. Ronan seems to remember everything Adam _or_ Gansey has ever said in his presence, so Adam gives him credit for thoughtfulness, even if it was unconscious. 

The sugary icing has started to crystallize, and it’s both flaky and wet in his mouth. These nice sheets are going to end up a disaster of crumbs and stickiness, and Adam reminds himself that there is a no-coins-required laundry room downstairs, and a closet full of equally nice sheets across the hall. Besides. This is hardly the worst thing they have done, or will do, to Ronan’s sheets.

Adam chases the roll with a mouthful of coffee, which is several shades milkier than the swill he usually scalds his tongue with before facing a twenty hour day of school and work and college applications. Ronan is leaning an elbow against the headboard so that his hand supports his chin, blue eyes trained on Adam. 

“Well done,” Adam pronounces.

Ronan grins like a gorgeous pit viper. He speaks reverently. “This is so fucking corny.”

Adam has to close his lips forcefully, and swallow, so he doesn’t spit coffee. Then he lets himself laugh and touch his hand to Ronan’s fuzzy scalp. “You’re the one who engineered this.”

“I didn’t say it was _bad_ corny.” Ronan leans in for a kiss, then, and Adam meets his lips. The melting sugar and coffee flavors pass between them, and they take their time enjoying it. When Adam stops for breath, he takes another mouthful of coffee and hands the mug to Ronan to set on the nightstand. Adam picks up the last piece of cinnamon roll and holds it before Ronan’s mouth.

“I already had a couple of these,” Ronan admits. “And Fox Way is definitely going to feed us a big lunch.”

“And you with your famously dainty appetite.” 

Ronan barks out a laugh, then, without further protest, takes the roll from Adam’s hand with his lips. He closes his mouth and swallows. Then he touches Adam’s little finger, brings it too his mouth and makes a show of licking sugar flakes off the skin. Adam laughs, uncertain how serious Ronan is being and starts to pull his hand away. Ronan catches Adam’s wrist in a circle of thumb and forefinger before he can retreat. Ronan’s thumb presses hard on the sensitive junction of tendons, and the feeling shoots down to Adam’s groin. Adam draws in a ragged breath. Ronan stares into his eyes for a long beat then finally verbalizes. “This all right?” 

Adam knows how much Ronan hates to waste words, but also that he’s careful not to take consent for granted. Right now, Ronan is holding onto Adam in a way that reminds them both that Ronan is large and strong and, if he put real effort into it, could make it hard for Adam to get away.

“It’s very all right,” Adam promises. He didn’t need Ronan to ask, but he likes what it says about Ronan that he did. Adam puts his free hand on Ronan’s scalp, while Ronan moves the hand he is controlling toward his mouth. Ronan starts by sucking Adam’s pinkie -- a little flutter of tongue on the tip, then he pulls it fully in. He repeats with the ring finger, and down the line, getting every bit of sugar while tenderly tasting the skin. Then, still holding Adam’s wrist, Ronan kisses each knuckle, spreading his lips around the bone and then dancing over it with the tip of his tongue. 

With every touch, Adam draws in a ragged breath. He resists the drive, getting stronger by the second, to put a hand on his own growing erection. Instead, he tightens his grip on the back of Ronan’s neck. 

Ronan slowly releases Adam’s hand and makes eye contact again. His pupils are wide and his voice when he speaks is unusually low. “How are you feeling?”

“Really fucking hard.” Adam pulls the sheet and blankets down past his knees, so that Ronan can see his cock pushing through the slit of his boxers. The same fair skin that lets Adam blush so easily makes the rush of blood to his erection conspicuously visible, which always made him self-conscious.

“Jesus fuck, you’re gorgeous,” says Ronan.

Adam doesn’t know what to do but laugh, and a familiar pissed-off look flashes across Ronan’s face. “It’s not funny. I mean it,” he says, and Adam remembers that you disparage the object of Ronan Lynch’s admiration at your own risk, even when that object is you.

“Sorry,” Adam says. “Thank you.” He slides out of his seated position to lie on his back. Ronan kisses him on the mouth, quickly and roughly this time, and then starts to work his way down Adam’s body. Some places he just rubs with his stubbly chin. Others, he stops to kiss. The notch between the neck and rib cage, both nipples, and the navel all get special attention. Adam has his eyes closed by the time Ronan reaches his left hip bone. Ronan runs his tongue along that ridge for so long that Adam groans, “Get onnnnnnn with it.” 

Ronan laughs, then hooks both thumbs under the elastic of Adam’s waistband and pulls the boxers down around his knees. His chin rests on Adam’s inner thigh, and Adam swears he can feel Ronan’s throat rumble against his skin, like the purring of a very large and very smug cat. Whatever noise Ronan is making, the look on his face gives it the quality of a question. Adam can’t fully sort out whether Ronan is looking for consent or instructions, so he just says, “Please,” and adds, “You’re good at this, I trust you.” 

This gets Ronan to growl and smile. When Adam feels Ronan’s big palm cradle his shaft, he remembers that he is -- literally now -- in good hands. Adam closes his eyes, and rolls back his head. He tries to keep his breath even while Ronan’s tongue tickles the tip of his cock. Lips move further up his shaft, while Ronan’s fingers lightly stroke his balls until Adam doesn’t remember why he thought he was supposed to be restrained and quiet and dignified. So he groans and he curses and he crosses his feet over Ronan’s back and digs his heels into his spine where he knows the ravens are meeting in that tattoo, though he can never quite manage to picture the image when his eyes aren’t on it. 

Adam wants to tell Ronan when he’s about to come, but the spasm takes him suddenly and anyway he’s unsure if he has control of his speech. He lets his breath slow and gives his heart rate time to get back to normal. Then Ronan crashes onto the pillow beside him. With his eyes still closed, Adam rests the back of one hand across Ronan’s chest, enjoying the cushion of thick, curly hair. Ronan lets out a wordless groan, and Adam rolls over on his side. 

Ronan is still wearing his sweatpants and has one hand down the front of them. Adam touches Ronan’s arm and slides fingers under the waistband, running them along Ronan’s wrist and the back of his hand. He remembers, then, to look at Ronan and ask, “Do you want me to -- ?”

“Fuck, yes.” Something about the way Ronan says this makes them both laugh, just a little. They’re still laughing when Adam gets his hand around Ronan’s cock and starts to stroke it lightly with his thumb. Ronan’s breath catches, and Adam kisses him on the forehead, then the temple, then along his cheekbone. Ronan moans, a sound that reflects longing and contentment at once. Adam’s strokes get faster and Ronan, instead of moving his own hand aside, keeps touching Adam’s wrist with his fingertips.

“You’re tickling me,” Adam giggles, “No, wait, don’t stop. . .” and so Adam lets out little laughs, while Ronan pants and groans, until he spends himself into Adam’s hand.

They lie together then, perfectly still, until Ronan says, “Yeah, anyway. Happy New Year.” He pauses. “I have napkins here. They were for the cinnamon rolls, but. . .”

“Thanks.” Adam takes one, and they disentangle. “Happy New Year,” he adds, a moment later. “I always liked this holiday. It’s not as much pressure as a birthday, but it’s a chance to think about better things ahead. Just. I guess. Before now, they were mostly theoretical. Now my future’s here and --” He looks to Ronan again and, though he can hardly believe it, his voice doesn’t crack when he says, “It's you.”

Ronan lets the quiet settle over them. It’s a comfortable quiet, and in the middle of it, Ronan rolls on his side to let Adam spoon against his back. Adam sees the tattoo, trying to memorize it so he can imagine it properly, next time. _This is the number of ravens and here is where they go_ , but as soon as he’s done looking, he’s forgotten again. Adam thinks they’re done talking, and he puts a hand to Ronan’s breastbone. Ronan laces their fingers together and then starts to say, “My dad --” He loses his breath or his courage, then tries again. “Dad used to say, ‘Begin as you mean to go on.’ So. Listen. I’m trying. I wish I could promise you it’s going to be cinnamon rolls and blow jobs every day from here on out. But we both know better.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Adam assures him. “And I don’t expect it. Though if the opportunity arises. . .”

"If the opportunity _arises_ , it’s your turn next.” 

“Deal.” Adam kisses his shoulder. “Luckily, I’m a decent cook.”

Ronan snorts.

"A decent cook --” Adam continues. He kisses Ronan’s earlobe. “With a very nice mouth. If I do say so myself.” Saying so, even teasingly, still seems like a risk. _Don’t get any big ideas about what you’re worth, boy. You’re nothing and you’ll always be nothing._ But he remembers Ronan calling him gorgeous. He thinks of the trouble Ronan has gone to this morning. Ronan, who insists you take him as he is, who doesn’t go out of his way for anyone. 

In a little while, they will get up and go out together, to visit the home of good friends who want Adam there. They will see other good friends, who will light up when Adam comes into the room. Adam still won’t fully comprehend it. He'll probably always carry the suspicious feeling, which his childhood beat into him, toward any club that wants him as a member. 

Adam Parrish isn’t a child anymore. On this first New Year’s Day of his adulthood, the one he anticipated so long ago, Adam feels the loss of everything he wrote in that notebook. It’s not because he misses his boyhood, but because of all the things he wishes he could have told that boy. But time doesn’t work that way, not even in magical forests. Not even for dreamers, or for sleeping kings. Even if Adam still had the notebook, he couldn’t undo a single thing about the story on its pages 

That story is over.

Adam is ready to start a new one.


End file.
